The compound was never quiet. Y/n had accepted that a long time ago.
But there was a difference between the usual chaos of her mismatched family and the sound of eight different conversations happening at once in the common room, with a raccoon arguing with a talking tree and a wizard levitating a cup of coffee across the room.
It was Sunday. Which meant Y/n had declared it family dinner. Which meant everyone was here. All of them.
The smell of her rosemary garlic roast chicken filled the room, drifting over the sprawling crowd scattered across couches, counters, and in Thor's case, the floor.
Steve stood near the kitchen island, arms crossed, the fondest smile playing at his lips as he watched Y/n move through the room like a general surveying troops. She'd made it three steps toward the dining table when a light thud made her pause.
Then came the voice.
from the floor, where she'd dramatically flopped Mother. I am dying. I need attention.
from the armchair, without looking up from his book She's not dying. She's hungry.
Same thing.
Wanda covered a smile with her hand. Vision tilted his head, genuinely confused. Sam hid a laugh behind his glass of sweet tea. Tony, on the couch with Pepper and Morgan, merely lifted his scotch in Y/n's direction.
Mrs. America, your children are malfunctioning again.
From the kitchen, the timer dinged. The potatoes were done.